


All Hail the King

by masked



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Demon Dean Winchester, M/M, Post-Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2019-09-07 01:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16844140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masked/pseuds/masked
Summary: Dean is finally free after becoming the thing he feared the most to become. Or so he thinks.Castiel thinks otherwise.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on Dec 2, 2015 [here](http://hamburgergod.tumblr.com/post/134386558518/a-bit-from-this-verse-canon-divergent-after-s9).
> 
> warning:   
> -Dean is not a nice person in this 'verse.  
> -there's a non-con scene at the beginning. it isn't sexual in nature and it isn't between Dean and Cas. Dean is involved.

“Sick tat, bro.”

The man glances at him, and his lips twitch upwards. “Y'think so?”

“Yeah, man,” the college kid says, eyeing the strange red marking on the man’s arm. It looks a lot more like a brand from up close, but he’s not sure if it’s just the lighting in the club. “What’s it supposed to be?”

The man twirls his drink once, twice, as if he’s contemplating whether to let him in on the secret of the tattoo. He leans a little closer, and the college kid follows. “It’s the Mark of the Devil.”

The college kid laughs, a short burst of disbelief, and straightens again. “That’s no Mark of the Devil. Those are like, y'now, pentagrams and upside down crosses and shit.”

“You wanna bet?”

The college kid shrugs. He’s a little buzzed and full of confidence. “Sure. How much?”

The man stares at him lamely, and the college kid feels prickles at the back of his neck. He suddenly wants out of this bet, but his pride doesn’t allow him.

“I’ll give you 500 bucks if you’re right,” the man drawls. 

“What?” the kid bursts, and snorts in disbelief. “Dude, I’m not betting that much.”

“Nah, I don’t want your money,” the man grins quickly. “I’m just looking for some fun, y'know?”

The man grips the kid’s forearm, and the kid exclaims in surprise and tries to escape his grip to no avail. The man is strong, and the kid watches in horror as the tattoo climbs up the man’s arm and into his own, forming the identical red mark. 

Only when the mark has settled in place does the man let go, and the kid slashes away from him.

“What the hell did you _do?”_ he screams. The man doesn’t answer him, but instead takes a sip from his tumbler as he watches with passive eyes. The mark burns—it _burns_.

Dean figures this round won’t last that long, so he decides against ordering another drink. He leans against the counter, and watches as the kid punches his friend out.

 _Nice_ right hook. 

* * *

Dean hears the flutters of the wings behind him, and he smile a little. He wants to turn around and watch his face as he assesses the room—oh does he make the best faces—but he doesn’t want to come off as eager.

“Dean.”

“Cas,” Dean replies. It’s a familiar routine by now.

Dean listens as the quiet footsteps tread closer—somehow Cas can make even his footsteps sound forlorn—occasionally pausing in places to step over a corpse strewn on the floor. 

Dean sees him settle beside him from the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t sit down. "Nice of you to finally join me.“

"Stop this,” Cas says. His voice is steady, but the thin tremble underneath the surface doesn’t escape Dean. 

Right to the point, as usual. Dean turns slowly, and cocks his eyebrows up at Cas, who stares down with a clenched jaw. “Demon, remember? This is kind of what I do.”

“You’re better than this,” Cas tries, and Dean snorts in response.

“No, I’m really not.”

Cas bristles. “You—”

Cas goes on about Dean’s supposedly redeeming qualities from when he was still human, blah blah blah, blah blah blah. Dean watches the way the amber liquor swirls inside the glass tumbler. 

“—in the past. I thought,” Cas pauses, and Dean’s ears prickle a little in interest because this part is new, “I thought helping people was your peace.”

Dean stifles a laugh. “Getting a bit desperate there, Cas. Why don’t you tone it down a notch?”

Cas looks around the room. “They were young,” he mutters. “Barely adults. You never crossed this line before—not like this. Why now?”

“Why not?”

“Because—you’re good.”

Dean shakes his head, and leans against the counter. “Look around you, Cas,” he says. “This looks like something a good guy would do?”

Cas refuses to look away, instead his eyes fixed on Dean with his hands clenched at his sides. 

“Hate to break it to you again, but I’m not the guy you want me to be.” Dean shrugs. “One of us needs a reality check, and it sure ain’t me.”

The muscle in Cas’s jaw jumps. Dean wonders if he’s finally gotten through him this time. 

“No,” Cas murmurs instead, with a slow shake of his head. “No, I know you’re still good, Dean. I know you’re still capable of it.”

Like talking to a fucking wall made out of titanium. Hilarious that something like Cas keeps on insisting how something like Dean is good, but the way he goes about it isn’t surprising in the least. Angels and their tunnel visions. 

It should be funny, but it grates at Dean’s fucking nerves. 

“Suit yourself,” he says, and downs the last drop of his drink. No point in staying around when his good mood’s gone to shit. 

He leaves Cas behind along with the corpses, and wanders away without a destination in mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> based on a dialogue prompt: ”You lied to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted on April 6, 2015 [here](http://hamburgergod.tumblr.com/post/115618618783/destiel-31-and-35).

Dean clenches his hand around the hilt of the First Blade, clenches until he feels the blunt end of the hilt dig into his palm. The blood that isn’t his own lets itself known as it dries on his face. “You have to do it, Cas.”

Cas stares down at him with a knife to his throat, and he shakes his head mutely. 

“You promised _.”_ He’s unable to let go of the blade in his hand. The Mark burns him with a steady pulse as if it has a life of its own, and Dean is so fucking scared of what’s to come, but maybe he’s also just as scared about dying again and he has no idea where Sam is but he hopes he’s as far away from Dean as possible right now—

Cas’s grip on his shoulder lessens. “I,” he says weakly, his voice cracking, “I can’t, Dean.” 

“You fucking _promised_ ,” Dean spits, the impulse of the Mark threatening to take over. Nobody in the room save for Cas has a heartbeat anymore, so it must his own that he hears thrumming so loudly. “You swore on it, you son of a bitch, you said you’d do anything it takes if it meant—” 

Dean doesn’t know if he’s accusing or begging anymore. All he knows is that he wants _this_ to stop. “Cas, _please_.”

Cas stares and stares like he’s memorizing everything about Dean before he squeezes his eyes shut, and he presses the knife against his neck again—

—before he lets Dean go. 

“No, _no_ , Cas—” Dean fumbles on the ground, and he can feel it, the constant nagging at the back of his head that won’t leave him alone until he kills again. “You _lied_ to me. You—”

The crestfallen and horrified look on Cas’s face is the last thing Dean sees before the urges silently and quickly takes over him, the months of self-control broken through. The worry that he has for Cas—what if he hurts him, oh god, what if he kills him—diminishes and morphs into a single thought.

_Who cares?_

Dean rubs his neck, feeling the little bite that Cas’s blade nicked on his throat closing up. He lets out a little laugh at the ridiculous desperation he felt few seconds ago, because jesus (ha), he can be overdramatic sometimes.

“ _Man_ , I forgot how good this felt,” Dean says, stretching his neck and shoulders. He grimaces as he wipes the blood off his face and wipes it on his pants. Humans and bodily fluids, ugh.

“Dean?” 

Dean turns to Cas, and blinks at the weird way Cas is being projected. “You weren’t kidding about the diminishing grace thing, huh.”

Cas looks down at his human body self-consciously, and looks back up at Dean with new determination. “I won’t let you leave.”

Dean snorts. “First you can’t kill me, and now you’re suddenly responsible about my well-being?”

Cas grips the hilt of his sword tighter. “I have to try.”

“Yeah okay, whatever.” 

Cas charges at him, and Dean punches him, sending him crashing into the nearest table. Easier than picking wings off of a butterfly. 

“Tell Sam to not stay up for me,” he says to the writhing body, and walks out. He hums himself a requiem. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted on Sept 10, 2016 [here](http://hamburgergod.tumblr.com/post/150173417293/impatience).

He hacks, hacks, hacks away at the flesh. Not slow enough for it to be considered torture he supposes, but he’s in no hurry either. The Mark makes itself known, the fickle bastard, burning against his arm. A brand.

He wants to wipe the drops of blood off of his eyes, but his hands are also covered in blood. It’s a moot point. He sighs, and looks out through the shuttered window, the weight of the Blade and a head in his hands.

He finishes the job, and tosses the head away. The blue hue of the sky slowly shines through as the sun rises, and he rinses his hands of blood.

He’s sick of watching the sun rise.

He doesn’t mean to stay around for long, but he does. He knows he’s dawdling when he opens up the fridge and scavenges around for something to keep him company while he waits, and waits, and waits, and—

He smashes a plate, and it’s not even satisfying. He punches a hole through the wall and it easily gives under him, and he takes out a drawer and lashes it to the other side of the room. He kicks one of the bodies on the floor for good measures. The blow lands with a dull thud.

He’s about to go at the chair when there’s a shift in space. Dean whips his head towards the spot.

Crowley looks back.

“My, my,” he says as he studies the room with his quick eyes. Dean wants to yank them out of their sockets. “Quite a number you did here.”

Dean huffs. He crosses his arms and leans against the counter in favour of having to talk to Crowley.

“Oh, sorry. Guess I wasn’t the one you were expecting with this display, hm?”

“What do you want, Crowley?”

Crowley stares, and Dean knows that look. It’s a look he’s been wearing a lot these days, and it’s not a look some low class demon like Crowley should be giving towards the King of Hell. “What?” he snaps.

Crowley shakes his head. “Nothing. Just,” he glances at the bodies on the floor, “reminiscing back to the good old days.”

Dean crushes the beer can in his hand, and throws it away. Crowley doesn’t flinch as the can barely misses his face. It lands with a loud clutter. “I have what you want,” he says. “Your angel’s whereabouts. I found him.”

“Good for you.”

Crowley frowns at him, confused. “That’s… not the reaction I was hoping for.”

Dean can’t help the low chuckle that escapes him. “Look, Crowley,” he explains kindly. “I know I let you off the hook more than you deserve, but I’m in an absolutely shit mood right now. If you’re as smart as I give you credit for, I suggest you scram before I decide to put you back on my rack.”

He watches as Crowley squirms in front of him, barely suppressing an involuntary shudder. “Fine,” Crowley grits out, still more defiant than Dean wants him to be. “But for your information, he’s _not_ ignoring you.”

Dean stares back at him impassively.

“He’s captured,” Crowley continues to run his mouth. “By some pathetic group of hunters who’re holding him responsible for everything you did. They’ve been—”

“Crowley,” he replies. “Did I stutter?”

Crowley finally shuts up. He’s annoyed now, but that’s not Dean’s problem. “Of course not,” he mutters. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

And he’s gone.

Captured. Have angels always been this weak? Dean’s not sure; he himself hasn’t been anyone’s prisoner for years.

A group of hunters who can capture an angel. Dean looks around the otherwise empty house. It’s quiet, save for the flies that are now buzzing around the corpses.

He supposes they’ll be more interesting than this place.

* * *

It’s almost laughable how easily Dean passes through the warding. Either they didn’t do their research, or they just suck at their jobs and Crowley made them seem more than they are.

He can feel the blood splatter onto his face, and he wants to wipe it off. His hands are covered in blood.

He looks down at Cas, blearily looking back up at him with his arms tied behind his back. He’s a fucking mess, his wounds illuminated by the holy fire that licks at Dean’s ankles. Dean kneels down to his eye level, the Blade in his hand.

“Gotta say,” he says slowly, “this is disappointing, Cas.”

Cas’s lips are bleeding, like he’s been biting on them. He doesn’t say anything.

“I mean, these hunters could barely call themselves that,” Dean continues. “Amateurs didn’t even know what kinds of sigils to use.”

Cas eyes the bodies behind Dean. His whole body sags—from relief, from resignation, Dean doesn’t know.

“You’re weak, Cas. You’re not even strong enough to trail behind me. Guess you just don’t have what it takes for the job.”

Cas coughs, blood gurgling at the back of his otherwise dry throat. He wheezes out a small sigh. “I worried you. I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean blinks. He looks at this abomination that can still call himself an angel as he steadily meets his eyes, not a single ounce of fear behind them.

Dean huffs out a laugh. “I just came to see who finally got rid of you off of my ass.”

“But you still came for me,” Cas replies. “Thank you.”

There’s a smear of blood on Cas’s cheek, on the face of someone he remembers believing as too holy for him. Back when he was a human. There’s a slight impulse to reach out and wipe it away, but Dean’s hands are covered in blood. He wonders if the touch would burn him, just as holy as he used to be.

The warehouse’s water sprinkler still works. The holy fire dies without protest, and Cas watches Dean as he walks back towards him. He looks at him, the same as he’s always done, seeing someone who doesn’t exist anymore.

Dean kicks him in the stomach. He lets out a surprised grunt, and coughs uncontrollably.

“Don’t be so fucking full of yourself,” Dean snipes at Cas’s writhing figure on the floor. He can feel something at the edge almost boiling over. “You honestly think I’d waste my time on someone like you? You can’t even defend yourself against some humans playing with fire.” Cas’s jaw muscles jump as he clenches them hard and grinds his forehead against the concrete. “Fuck off, Cas. Flap your little wings away and leave me the fuck alone.”

Cas shakes his head silently, his eyes squeezed shut. Dean stares down at him, and turns away to leave.

“No,” Cas coughs out, and Dean stops. “Not until I have you back.”

He tightens his fist around the Blade’s handle. The Mark pulses, and it’s hot in this warehouse. There’s sweat, and blood, and he wants to kill him. He’s never going to leave him alone if he doesn’t. He’s never going to leave him.

“Then you’re out of fucking luck,” he grits, and slams the door behind him.

He leaves in a worse mood than what he arrived with.


End file.
